


whatever a moon has always meant

by narrativefoiltrope



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Love Confessions, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27620759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativefoiltrope/pseuds/narrativefoiltrope
Summary: mason finally figures out whatever the hell it is he feels for detective winter collins. then he tells her.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 62





	1. here is the deepest secret nobody knows

He was on the roof of the warehouse again. He’d had a shit day. Things had been too fucking _loud_ , too bright, Felix’s music too annoying, and he only saw Winter for five minutes when she got to the warehouse after her late shift before she needed to sleep. Mason wasn’t sure when he started counting Winter—whether and how long he’d seen her for—as part of what made his day shit or not-shit, but he didn’t question it. She made things better. Easier. So yeah, he preferred her to be near him (with him?) than anywhere else. _Fine._

Although he usually haunted the rooftop at night, his reason for being there then was different. It was still the most peaceful place on the warehouse grounds, but that night he was there because it reminded him of her. After seeing the pitiful state of her apartment complex’s communal garden, where she spent most of her free time and, as a result, where he spent most of his, he suggested—without thinking—she use some space on the warehouse’s roof for her own garden. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth (who the hell was he, giving a shit about plants?) but the way her whole face lit up at the idea, brown eyes sparkling, almost made it worth it. Winter had set up a few planter boxes on the roof, one for herbs that Nate used when cooking and one for her favourite flowers. Primroses, she said. Mason found it comforting to spend time around the makeshift garden in her absence: A whisper of her perpetual calm and softness seemed to hang around the leaves and petals, as if her hands had just swept across them in gentle inspection. 

He had spent more time there over the last few weeks while Winter was wrapped up in a case, a string of petty robberies, and he was tempted to find the asshole responsible and knock them out himself just so they’d stop taking up all of her damn time (he wouldn’t—she was capable of handling her own cases but still, fuck that guy). Mason growled at the thought. The sudden anger deep in his stomach was accompanied by an unfamiliar ache, hidden behind the vehemence of his irritation but lurking under the surface if he took the time to look. (When the _fuck_ did he think about his feelings? Who _was_ he?) 

Did he miss her? Yeah, fine—he missed her. But he was annoyed that he missed her, and he was even more annoyed that mooning around on their roof—it used to be _his_ roof, goddamn it—near some of her little plants made him feel better when she was gone. _What the fuck._

The roiling mix of emotions compelled him to physically move, to do something, to get his focus out of his head and back on his body. He pushed himself off the ground roughly; he wanted the contact with the concrete. The roof scraped against his hands, left small pebbles on his palms that he shook off with a swear. Mason strode away from the plants and jammed a hand deep into his jacket pocket. He almost never smoked anymore, but he wanted to go through the motions of grabbing the carton, selecting a cigarette, lighting it up. He’d forgotten to bring a pack with him—but there was something else inside the pocket, something folded, a plasticky piece of paper. He yanked it out.

Fuck.

The carnival photo. He had taken it from its place on the wall when they’d returned to the carnival after settling the maa-alused in their new territory—he couldn’t figure out what made him do it, but he wasn’t going to question it then. He folded it and shoved it into his jacket pocket, where it stayed all these months—kept close but rarely looked at. 

Looking at it now was different. The two of them pressed close together, his arm around her shoulder, and _her_. Winter was smiling a little shyly but striking nonetheless, a different smile than the wide grin she so often offered him; her hair fell in soft waves just at her shoulders, several inches shorter than it was now. 

If he wanted something to distract him from the mess swirling around his head, his chest, his stomach, this sure as shit was not it. It was about as far away from a distraction as he could’ve possibly gotten, instead drawing his focus like a laser beam to the sensations screaming inside him, demanding acknowledgement. 

Fucking fine. _Fine_. Maybe if he thought about it, he could breathe regularly again. Maybe he’d miss her less. What was it that the fortune teller, Sanja, said to him? _“You think what you’re starting to feel for her is loyalty. But does it feel the same as it does when you think of the rest of those you are bonded to?”_

Mason thought about Unit Bravo then and how much he trusted each member: how he would follow Adam without hesitation, how Nate and he might clash but how deeply he respected Nate anyway, and how he could count on Felix to blow off some steam with. He had all their backs on missions, knew they did the same for him—had done it countless times. His loyalty to them was without question.

That was true with Winter, too: He protected and defended her, and he knew that she protected him in her own way. He challenged her when she needed to be challenged (frequently, but getting less frequent these past few months). Just because he didn’t need to do that with Unit Bravo didn’t mean that what he felt for her went beyond loyalty. He was ready to scoff at the fortune, lock up the birds that had taken residence in his stomach (annoying little shits), when his eyes were drawn back down to the photo.

And something inside him shifted. Even now, even in a fucking photo, he felt the sheer magnetism that existed between them, the desire—the need—to be close. He thought of how easy it was when they were together; a casual closeness, an awareness of each other that didn’t need words. How tenderly she touched him, like nobody ever had—as if _he_ was the one that was fragile. And how he calmed down when she was around (or apparently became moodier than usual when she _wasn’t_ around, like right then). The world shut the fuck up when Winter was near. It was bearable. It was almost…soft. Not quite as soft as she was—sometimes he rolled his eyes at how gentle she was (but he would bark at anyone else who fucking tried that). She never tried to make him into someone he wasn’t; her soft expanse welcomed his rough edges. 

What _was_ this? 

Mason didn’t feel for his unit—his family—the way he felt for Winter. When he thought about the times she was hurt or almost lost, he couldn’t breathe. When he thought about her smile, his chest constricted. 

…Was this what Nate was always waxing poetic about? Was he…? 

Oh. 

_Oh._

He was in love with her. 

At the realisation, he felt his body relax. The relentless churning in his stomach stopped. The buzzing in his head quieted. He regained a semblance of the calm he sought in coming to the roof in the first place (thank _fuck_ ). Mason stretched his arms, testing how much tension was still there. He rolled his shoulders back, took a deep breath. Fuck, he felt…better? Was love supposed to feel like this—make him lighter, calmer? He scoffed. How goddamn annoying. 

Mason looked at the photo again, still gripped in his hand. He should probably tell her. That’s what Nate would tell him to do—but there was no way in hell he was telling Nate before telling Winter. She should know first, was all. 

He’d tell her in the morning.


	2. whatever a sun will always sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after figuring out he is in love with her, mason finally tells detective winter collins how he feels.

She was awake. Had been for about 45 minutes, trying and failing to be quiet in the kitchen where she and Nate were making breakfast—scratch that, where Nate was making breakfast and probably trying to prevent Winter from burning too many things as she ‘helped.’ By the sound of Nate setting the table, they would be heading to the dining room any minute. 

Mason gave himself a final once over in the mirror. What the hell did you wear to tell someone you loved them? Not wanting to look like he was trying too hard, he settled on a variation of what he normally wore, but chose a shirt that Winter said she liked on him. He ran a hand through his hair (yeah—good). 

As he stalked towards the dining room, he caught parts of their conversation. Nate asking about her shift, Winter saying it had been frustrating but fine; Winter asking what recipe they should try making next, Nate suggesting eggs benedict. She laughed then and the sound went straight to his chest, a warmth settling there. 

When he reached the room, Mason hung back for a moment. He wasn’t nervous (what a fucking ridiculous idea). Why would he be nervous? He was walking into a room where two quiet nerds were eating breakfast in their pajamas—plaid flannel for Winter and Nate in another one of his expensive sets—while he was…well, _himself._ Shaking the thought away, Mason slinked forward to rest his hip against the doorframe.

As if sensing his presence, Winter turned and looked right at him. She smiled and his stomach rocketed to the floor. Fuck. The sense of calm he had the night before vanished and was instead replaced by something erratic, something euphoric that threatened to burst and shatter him into a million pieces, only for her to gently piece them back together again in her careful hands. 

“Good morning, handsome! This is a nice surprise,” Winter said. Her hair was still messy and sleep still lingered around her edges and she was the most fucking gorgeous person he had ever seen. She patted the seat next to her in invitation. 

Although he was nearly compelled forward, drawn to her like a magnet, he realised then that he hadn’t thought this plan through entirely: They weren’t alone. Nate sat across the table from Winter, happily working his way through a plate of blueberry pancakes tastefully covered with powdered sugar. 

Well, getting rid of Nate was always easy enough.

He nodded silently in greeting at Nate, who reciprocated with a calm smile, and walked over to where Winter sat. He sank down in the chair next to her, slung an arm around the back of her chair, and was met with her hand resting on his knee. Despite his earlier unease—a streak of lightning ricocheting through his abdomen—he immediately felt calmer in being close to her, the contact grounding him. 

Mason noticed a stray bit of flour on the shell of her ear. Apparently making breakfast had been eventful as per usual. 

…He could work with this. 

Leaning closer to her, he rumbled, “Made a bit of a mess in the kitchen, sweetheart? You have a little something here.” He blew gently on her ear, removing the flour and turning her a brilliant shade of red in the process, waves of heat emanating off of her. But Mason didn’t stop there: Spurred on by her shivering, her hand on his knee tightening, he dropped his mouth a little lower to scrape against her earlobe. Winter gasped.

“Mason! I am _trying_ to have breakfast here,” Nate called, disapproval clear in his voice. 

Angling his head to shoot Nate a smirk, Mason responded, “So am I,” before he took Winter’s earlobe between his teeth and bit down gently. Her pulse sped up, pounding a staccato beat in his head, and she squirmed under his attention. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Nate admonished. Clicking his tongue in reprimand, he rose from the table, taking his plate with him, and shook his head the whole way out of the dining room. 

Perfect. 

Winter cleared her throat, untucked her hair from behind her ears—guess that fun was done now—and shot him a sheepish glance, blush still burning on her face. “Poor Nate,” was all she managed to say. 

Mason leaned back. “Sad we’re alone now?”

She turned to face him fully, brown eyes softening in a way that made him feel too big for his body, endlessly expanding under that gentle gaze. “Never,” she whispered. She grasped his hand, still draped over her chair, and pressed a chaste kiss to his palm. The light touch sent a shockwave through him. He shouldn’t have been so goddamn surprised since Winter was always touching him like he was something to be treasured—held carefully, meant to be protected—but he wasn’t sure he would ever be used to it. (Not that he disliked it, despite his protests in front of the rest of Unit Bravo.) 

Keeping a hold of his hand, she pressed her face against his palm. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you much this week. Work has been so busy.” She closed her eyes before adding quietly, “I’ve missed you.”

Fuck, he had missed her too. To the point of a physical ache that he didn’t fully understand the extent of until he was back in her presence. He had thought last night on the roof was painful; he somehow hurt more here, in her presence, and it didn’t make any goddamn sense. She was _right there_ —touching him, telling him she missed him—how the fuck was it possible that he was both at peace and in agony at the same time? 

His tongue was heavy in his mouth. His throat constricted, trapping the words there. Mason tried to tell her anyway, sweeping his thumb over her cheekbone and tracing a spray of freckles; she sighed into the touch and he knew she understood. 

After a few moments, Winter broke away from him and turned her attention back to her breakfast. They sat in silence while she ate. 

Usually these silences between them were comfortable, easy, since neither one felt the need to speak for the sake of speaking. Maybe this silence was comfortable for her, but it sure as shit was not for Mason.

The problem was he actually had something to say. Something important. Something that she deserved to hear from him. It was the whole goddamn reason he was social at such a ridiculous hour even though he wasn’t able to sleep at all the night before. 

And yet he continued to sit there in _fucking silence_ when he should have been turning to look at her, should have been opening his mouth, should have been _telling_ her that—that—that _what?_ That he wanted her with him all the time? That he felt calm around her, that the entire fucking _world_ felt more manageable around her? That he would do anything for her, protect her from any harm—even if that meant protecting her from herself—that she was safe with him? He hadn’t even been able to tell her with words earlier that he missed her, how in the _fuck—_

Winter placed her silverware on the plate. The sudden change in movement drew him out of his head. She gave him a quick smile as she stood up, about to clear away her dishes and get ready for work. 

This was it. He was going to tell her.

…His mouth wasn’t cooperating (and he’d never had _that_ problem before).

She was leaving. He still wasn’t speaking _(what the fuck!)._

Carrying her plate, Winter passed behind his chair. Right before she walked out of his reach, Mason hooked one arm around her waist. She looked back at him over her shoulder, brows questioning but a small smile playing on her lips. 

“Mason, I have to get—”

“I love you, you know.” 

Time stopped. He heard her heart rate pick up speed. Saw pink spread over her cheeks, but a lighter shade than her previous blush—not flustered, no. He watched as her pupils dilated, turning her eyes more black than brown, sparkling in the low early morning light. 

Winter placed her dishes back down on the table. She turned around to face him, took a step closer. “I know,” was all she said. Then she settled gently across his lap. His hands instinctively went to her hips to anchor her to him. This close, he could count the number of freckles dotted across her nose and cheeks, could see that her eyes were slightly misty (shit, was she supposed to cry when she heard he loved her? Did he say something wrong?). 

Winter didn’t let him sit with those doubts for long. She brushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and kept her hand on his face, cupping his cheek, her touch a simple answer to those unasked questions. She looked at him then, eyes wide and unblinking, and he had never felt so exposed, the earnestness of her expression always unbalancing him but now—now he was falling, stomach leaping, and he almost—almost—wanted to look away from her. 

She was merciful, though: Sensing his discomfort, she drew her eyes away from his before he felt compelled to break their gaze. He watched as her eyes flickered to his mouth, her head tilting as she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t that they didn’t kiss; they did, but those kisses took place across the planes of his face, the soft skin of her neck. Kissing each other fully on the mouth—and Winter initiating such a kiss—was rare for them. That wasn’t the only thing that felt different: The kiss was still soft—it was _Winter,_ of course it was fucking soft—but it was insistent. Whenever she pulled away, each time more breathless than the last, her hands clutched at his face, at his hair, unwilling to break contact for a moment. He wrapped his arms around her back, eliminating the little remaining space between them, and let himself drown in the feeling. 

Was this kiss a confirmation? Was she saying it back? He hadn’t even considered whether or not she would say she loved him too (…should he have?). But him telling her had nothing to do with his desire to hear it back: He loved her _(he loved her,_ shit that was going to take him awhile to get used to) and he thought she should know. That was it. Even if she didn’t say it back, he was pretty fucking sure it wouldn’t matter. Wouldn’t change how he felt about her. 

Winter pulled away, breaking off the kiss. After catching her breath for a few moments, she took his face in both her hands—a movement of hers he had catalogued and one which she reserved for serious pronouncements. She looked him directly in the eye, and in a tone more assured than he could remember hearing her use before, she said, “I love you, Mason.” Dropping her gaze and lowering her voice, Winter added, “I’ve been in love with you for months, actually.” 

The calm that her first statement brought him was interrupted by a nagging question brought on by her second statement: She had been in love with him for months? _Months?_ Where the fuck had he been? How had he not noticed this? 

He paused then. Winter—like him—was not one for words, not really. She so often spoke without voicing anything. 

…Goddamn it. 

She had been telling him all this time and he fucking missed it. 

She told him through the black-out curtains she bought for her apartment and for her room in the warehouse. Told him whenever she took her shoes off before getting to his room if they were heavy and loud, and in how she stopped using scented lotions and perfumes (he never asked her to). Told him with her fingers drawing absentminded circles on his leg when they sat next to one another; her hands carding through his hair; her lips pressed to his forehead, his palm, his jaw.

It was his job to pick up on signals and yet he missed hers. Un-fucking-believable. 

Whatever. _Whatever._ They’d said it now, it was _fine._

Instead of voicing any of this, Mason tilted his head back, freeing his face from her hands, and arched a brow. “Can’t say I’ve had complaints about taking my time with someone before, sweetheart.” His lips curled into a smirk.

Winter let out a small laugh and rolled her eyes. “I’m not complaining, I just…wanted you to know.”

He nodded and used the movement to duck his head close to her neck. She reluctantly put a hand on his chest and leaned away from him. “I have a meeting with the mayor this morning; I can’t go in there looking like a teenager covered in hickeys,” Winter said. 

“Skip it.”

She shook her head. “You know I want to, but I can’t.” A sigh. “And actually I really need to get ready for work.” 

Pressing a kiss to his jaw, she disentangled herself from his lap, grabbed her plate, and went to leave for the second time that morning. Winter paused at the door. “Would you meet me at the station after my shift? We could go for a walk, spend some time together?”

He grumbled (as if he wasn’t going to meet her). “See you at 5.” She beamed at him before heading back to the kitchen with her dishes. 

Mason remained seated in the silent dining room after she left. He wasn’t ready to leave the moment yet, wanting her to linger on him—the warmth of her skin through her sleepwear, the smell of her hair. He felt more at ease than he had in weeks. Months, if he was going by when Nate and Felix started annoying the shit out of him about Winter—wait, did that fucking mean that he also—?

Goddamn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this before the second book 3 demo was released and now desperately need the serotonin from it. this is a very, very, very late prompt fill from a tumblr request for a "blurted confession of love" from a cliche trope list. 
> 
> thank you so much (again) to ejunkiet for reading and commenting <3
> 
> come yell about vampires with me on tumblr (@narrativefoiltrope)!

**Author's Note:**

> this is part one of a two-part work, which grew out of a tumblr request for a cliche trope "confession of love." the title of the work and chapter are lines from e.e. cummings's "[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]." big thanks to ejunkiet for reading and commenting! <3


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